


Shoestring

by CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Colombia - Freeform, F/M, backpacking, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9845906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Written for the prompt:Clint is backpacking on a shoestring budget. Natasha is on an organised trip or package holiday and she's bored. Travelling happens.  And other things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd for now. Sorry guys.

Clint’s never had this before. Sure, he once unintentionally followed a guy over the Mexican border and into Guatemala and then onto Flores, where they met again on the side of a lake and it was all very awkward, especially as he’d had to borrow some dollars from the guy to get over the border in the first place, but this was different. He’d been travelling in Central and South America for a while now, and this same group of Russians were turning up _everywhere_.

And they had to be Russians, _of course_ they were Russians. Russians were the worst, so obviously they’d be following him around South America.

Clint scowls at them from the bar in the hostel he very much regrets booking into now. And of course they’re at the bar. Russians are always at the bar; it’s what makes them the worst. They drink like fish, are loud and obnoxious, and accidentally barge into your room at three in the morning when they mix up the 2 and the 5 on their room keys because they’re too drunk-slash-hungover-slash-high-probably to see straight.

Literally the only reason he doesn’t leave is because one of the Russians is this straight up fucking stunning red-head and Clint likes the eye candy.

 _They’re back_ , Clint Whatsapps Kate on the battered tablet that constitutes Clint’s most prized possession. Well, along with his passport and fifty per cent DEET mosquito repellent.

 _Who are_.

_The fucking Russians._

_What do you mean back you first saw them in fucking Nicaragua youre in Columbia now what the fuck._

_EXACTLY._

“Dos cervezas, por favour,” a voice says from next to Clint.

 _Please tell me youre not stalking the red-head,_ Kate messages.

Clint turns at the sound, and finds the red-head Russian right next to him, ordering beers in flawless Spanish. Suddenly Clint doesn’t feel he can tell Kate no.

“I keep seeing you around,” the red-head says to Clint, nudging one of the beers she ordered in his direction.

“I keep seeing _you_ around.”

“Much easier for one guy to stalk a group,” she points out. “Also, much easier for one guy to avoid a group too.”

“You’d think,” Clint grumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” the woman asks with a smile that clearly says she heard him just fine.

“Thanks for the beer.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

Clint probably does. He’s just got off a seven hour chicken-bus ride from the border and it’s hot as fucking balls. He hasn’t even found his room yet, or dumped his stuff. Instead he came straight to the bar to take advantage of the Wi-Fi and the cheap beer. He’d only managed one of two before he’d noticed the fucking Russians.

“I’m Natasha,” the woman says, taking a long drink from her beer.

Clint salutes her lazily with his bottle. “Hello Natasha, I’m Clint.”

“You look like you’ve been having more fun than me.”

Clint gives her a quizzical look. In reply, Natasha gently kicks the backpack at his feet.

It’s mud-spattered, one pocket only functioning thanks to some pretty ingenious sewing on Clint part. It has several patches on it – country flags, national park logos, a cactus – that have less to do with any kind of individualistic statement and more to do with covering up holes. There’s a pair of purple flip flops attached to the front, two awful, ratty tie-dyed t-shirts wrapped around the shoulder straps and several feathers looped through the mesh on the front. It’s the kind of backpack you end up with when you’re down to the last of your money and give zero fucks who knows.

“For a given definition of fun, sure.”

There is no fucking easy way to get from Panama into Colombia by land. He’d ended up hitchhiking as far as he could and then bribing someone to smuggle him over the border between La Miel and Sapzurro, before buying passage across the Gulf of Uraba and hitchhiking again. And that was _before_ the fourteen hour chicken-bus journey that he had to split into two because fourteen hours on a chicken-bus is at least twelve hours longer than he can cope with without killing anyone. He only coped with the two seven hour journeys because he met two guys – Miguel Carlos Ortiz y Hernandez and Johnny Rodriguez – who claimed a lot of outlandish and hilarious things including the fact that Johnny could speak to the ghost of Cortez.

If he ever bothers to go back to the States, he might write a book. There’s some epic shit he’s ended up getting himself into.

That’s probably not what she means though.

“Getting shitfaced not quite your speed?”

“Not for a month, no.”

“No offence,” Clint says, looking over at the rest of the Russians. “But that’s sort of what Russians do when they’re travelling.”

Natasha follows his gaze. One of her fellow travellers has got hold of a bottle of mescal and a lighter and is goading people into doing flaming shots. At three in the afternoon.

“I’m beginning to realise that,” she says rolling her eyes and turning back to the bar. “Dos cervezas mas, por favour.”

The barman gives her another couple of beers and again, she nudges one his way.

“You trying to soften me up?” Clint asks, enough levity in his voice to makes sure she knows he’s teasing, but it’s a genuine question regardless.

“Something like that.”

Clint quirks an eyebrow at her – or tries to. It’s not an expression that sits well on his face.

“You wanna come with me to Simon Bolivar Park?”

Clint has to admit he wasn’t expecting that. “What, now?”

“You doing anything else?”

And of course Clint’s not. His plan for the day was mostly napping and then finding the cheapest street food available before crashing out properly. And showering. God, he needs a shower so bad. But then, these plans were made _before_ the really attractive Russian red-head he’d been admiring on and off for nearly two months wandered over.

“Well, the showering part of my plans still has to happen, but after that, no.”

Natasha smiles at him over the mouth of her second beer.

“Good,” she says, and Clint gets the sudden feeling that something very important has just been decided – maybe by the universe but more probably by Natasha – and the fact that he bumped into this Russian group _again_ isn’t actually an accident, much as it likes to pretend it is.

 

When Clint decides to leave Bogota a week later, Natasha comes with him.

He never sees that Russian tour group again.

**Author's Note:**

> The geography is real, the technicalities are more than likely not. I have been part of a group that accidentally followed a guy to Flores after embarrassingly having to borrow some US dollars from him to cross the border into Guatemala. I have never met anyone who believes they can speak to the ghost of Cortez.
> 
> Also, I am reliably informed that this is a common stereotype (and also truism) about Russians backpacking.


End file.
